


your hand in my hand (my fingertip on your fingertip)

by spilled_notes



Category: Holby City
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Teachers, Episode Related, F/F, First Kiss, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Handholding, Music, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-03-13 17:02:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13575003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spilled_notes/pseuds/spilled_notes
Summary: A collection of ficlets about the various ways they hold hands (because hands are my weakness, as I'm sure you're all aware by now!).**Rating only applies to chapter 4**





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> BlueBeetle asked for a fic about the many ways Bernie and Serena hold hands. This isn't quite that but is rather a collection of not-necessarily-related ficlets, in the vein of [Spinning World](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8800489/chapters/20176150).  
> Title from ‘Sea’ by Marcas Mac an Tuairneir.

It’s hot in the South of France in mid August. But Serena can’t get enough of Bernie, wants to be touching her all the time now that she has her here. Bernie’s hardly complaining; for someone who professes not to be a particularly tactile person she’s initiating physical contact on a startlingly regular basis. Serena keeps reaching for Bernie to find Bernie is already reaching for her, their hands or bodies meeting halfway.

She might have acclimatised to the heat, but even Serena’s light blouse feels like too much against her skin as they stroll between the rows of vines. They’ll be picking these soon, she thinks, gently touching the swelling fruit. Maybe even before Bernie leaves for Sudan. Her palms are sweaty, but still she slips her hand into Bernie’s; it’s been minutes since they last touched, far too long.

Bernie glances at her, a smile curving her thin lips, and squeezes. Her palm is sweaty too, and already Serena feels almost uncomfortable as Bernie’s body heat makes her own spike. She withstands it as long as she can, then reluctantly loosens her grip. Bernie doesn’t let her go too far, though. Her middle finger hooks around Serena’s, keeping her close, keeping their skin touching. Serena looks at her fully, feels her heart swell at the relaxed expression on Bernie’s face and the love in her eyes. She had thought they might never get to be like this again, worried they had had their moment. But here they are, hand in hand (almost, anyway), no doubt in her mind how Bernie feels about her and about them. No doubt that this is it for her, and for Bernie.

‘I love you,’ she says softly.

‘Love you too,’ Bernie replies, gently swinging their joined hands, her smile widening into a grin.


	2. Chapter 2

Her hand lingers in Bernie’s the first time they meet. Serena has no idea why she holds the handshake – holds Bernie’s hand – longer than she would normally, but there it is. Bernie’s grip is strong and sure, though not aggressive or dominating; her skin feels a little dry and rough, in needs of bucketloads of moisturiser after a lifetime of scrubbing and goodness knows how many desert tours.

*

They call a truce, after a difficult day with Jason, after Serena snipes and snips at Bernie all day because of him and because of Arthur, and Serena is glad of it. She hasn’t the energy for conflict right now, and while Bernie possesses the ability to get right under her skin Serena does, that aside, enjoy working with her. She expected Bernie to hold a grudge, after her behaviour towards her today; she would, after all. But Bernie just reaches out towards her. Again, their hands linger. Serena realises, as Bernie’s fingers slowly slide against hers and out of her grip, that she likes how their hands fit together.

*

‘I’m sorry, Serena Campbell. Have we met?’ she teases, holding out her hand.

Bernie takes it, and the slide of skin against skin is so delicious that Serena wonders how on earth she’s managed to keep her suddenly realised wanting under control for these weeks. It’s the look in Bernie’s eyes, though, that makes her wonder how much longer she can manage before it explodes out of her: dark, deep, filled with so much affection and yearning.

Yes, after dinner last night Serena _knows_ Bernie still wants her. She’s skittish, though, wary of hurting Serena, of pushing her into something she isn’t ready for, something she doesn’t want at all.

 _I do want you_ , she thinks, trying to transmit it with every fibre of her being.

Their fingers linger and slowly slide apart. Their gazes linger a little longer, until Serena has to glance away before she does something stupid right in the middle of Pulses.


	3. Chapter 3

Bernie has forgotten her gloves. She stands outside the church with her hands shoved into her coat pockets instead but the cold January air still bites at her fingers. She’s itching for a cigarette, toys with the loose thread in her right pocket to distract herself and clenches her left hand into a fist. She can see Raf and Fletch, Hanssen and Ric, but has positioned herself on her own, a group of Elinor’s friends between them.

The hearse pulls up and there’s a flurry of movement as the bearers move to take the coffin, but Bernie’s eyes are on the following car, on Serena as she gets out and wraps her arms tight around herself.

It’s become her usual posture these past days, all self-contained and closed off, hands kept firmly to herself. Bernie has never seen her like this; every other time she’s seen Serena in pain she’s reached out, sought physical contact with someone, even if it wasn’t her. And Bernie doesn’t know how to bridge the gap. All she wants to do is wrap Serena in her arms and hold her tight, hold her together so she doesn’t have to do it herself, so she can fall apart safely. But Bernie isn’t someone who reaches out, not like Serena does – like Serena _did_. So instead she just makes sure she’s visible, reachable, makes sure that if Serena does reach for her she’ll be there in an instant.

Bernie falls in behind Serena and Edward, walks into the church and down the aisle a pace behind them, close enough to catch Serena (because she knows just how little Serena has been eating and sleeping, and isn’t quite sure how she’s still upright, and she sure as hell doesn’t trust Edward to catch her). She’s just about to slip into the second pew when Serena shoots a pleading look over her shoulder and stretches one hand out behind her.

Bernie instantly pulls her cold hand from her pocket and takes it, willingly slides in beside Serena but leaves an inch of hard wood between them, allows Serena to decide how close she wants to be. Serena shuffles until they’re pressed together from shoulder to knee, their clasped hands on Bernie’s thigh, Bernie’s bare fingers the only pale splash amid all the black.

Bernie holds tight and doesn’t let go, neither when Serena’s grip is fierce nor when it weakens as she sobs. _I’m here,_ Bernie thinks, as loudly and surely as she can. _I’ve got you._ She only lets go to slip her arm around Serena’s shaking shoulders, replaces one hand with the other before Serena has chance to feel the loss.


	4. Chapter 4

‘Show me what you like, Serena,’ Bernie says, a husky murmur into the soft, warm space behind Serena’s ear as she leans over her. ‘I want to learn you.’

Serena shivers, from Bernie’s warm breath on her skin and the feather light touch of Bernie’s lips, and Bernie’s words with all their hot, dark implications.

‘You’ve been doing a stellar job of that all by yourself,’ she replies, a whimper of protest escaping her throat when Bernie raises her head. ‘Yes, well,’ she mutters, rolling her eyes fondly at Bernie’s smug expression.

‘Still,’ Bernie insists, trailing her fingers up and down Serena’s side, the curve of hip and dip of waist, the gentle ridges of her ribs. ‘No one knows your body better than you.’

She wants to tell Bernie that there’s no need, that the way Bernie touches her is perfect, is everything that she wants and needs. But Bernie looks so earnest, and there’s a glitter in her eyes that makes Serena’s breath catch and her heart flutter. The thought that Bernie has been thinking about how she touches herself flares bright in Serena’s mind, sends a fresh rush of desire through her.

‘Okay,’ she whispers, leaning to kiss Bernie’s opening mouth before she can stammer an apology, an _are you sure_ , a _we don’t have to, I didn’t mean, only if you want to_.

Because suddenly Serena can think of nothing in the world she wants more than this.

She pushes herself up, feels Bernie tense and begin to roll away from her, reaches to grasp her shoulder. ‘This is hardly the best position,’ she says quietly, feels Bernie soften under her hand.

‘What would you suggest?’ Bernie asks, a blush colouring her cheeks, her eyes darkening even more.

‘Behind me,’ Serena says, shuffling to make space.

Bernie rearranges the pillows and sits against the headboard, her long legs framing Serena, and Serena leans back against her, smiles and hums as Bernie nuzzles into the crook of her neck.

‘I like this,’ Serena murmurs. ‘Being surrounded by you.’

Bernie smiles against her skin, begins to run her hands lightly over Serena’s body, teasing touches to her collarbones, her breasts, her stomach. But Serena has already grown impatient. She catches at Bernie’s hand as it skims her side, guides it down between her thighs. She groans at the first touch, at how wet she is, and so does Bernie, both feeling the sound as much as hearing it.

‘Oh, Serena,’ Bernie murmurs.

‘Bernie,’ Serena replies, her breath leaving her lungs harshly as Bernie begins to kiss her neck, lips dragging slowly across her skin and her racing pulse. With gentle pressure she guides Bernie’s deft fingers, feather touches and firmer strokes, just how she touches herself. Just how she has touched herself thinking of Bernie, of Bernie’s hand in place of her own.

It’s an odd sensation, their two sets of fingers working together, both slick and sticky with her arousal, both sliding against her and teasing just so. Unfamiliar, but far from unpleasant.

‘God, that’s good,’ Serena groans, and feels Bernie smile, feels her hum of agreement.

Serena comes with a shudder and a moan of Bernie’s name, and her head tipped back against Bernie’s shoulder, and both of her hands clasping both of Bernie’s.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set in the same music teachers AU as [concerto for two](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12737133/chapters/29046618). Not essential for you to have read that first - all you really need to know is that they're both music teachers, Bernie plays the cello and Serena plays classical guitar.

Bernie opens the front door to the sound of Bach – the [Allemande](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2zpLso4eGMY) from Cello Suite number one, to be precise. Her smile widens and she closes the door as quietly as she can, slips off her shoes and hangs her jacket beside Serena’s, pads to lean in the doorway of the study and watches, silently, until Serena plays the final note.

‘I’m back,’ she says softly.

Serena twists on her stool, looks over the neck of her guitar and smiles at Bernie’s smile. ‘How’s Charlotte?’

‘She’s good. Very happy to be heading back to uni with an entire chocolate cake _and_ a bag of cookies for the freezer.’

‘Her mother’s daughter,’ Serena says sagely, wincing a little as she shakes and then flexes her left hand.

‘You okay?’

‘Mm, just a bit too much Bach for one session. I’ve not been playing enough recently, and I’m feeling it.’

Bernie smiles sympathetically and tilts her head. ‘Come on.’

Serena frowns, but Bernie just holds out her hand. So Serena sets her guitar on its stand and goes to her, lets Bernie lead her into the next room and to the sofa.

Carefully, Bernie takes Serena’s left hand in hers and begins to rub circles into the muscles at the base of her thumb, in her palm, at the base of each finger. Serena’s eyes fall closed, her head tipping back, a soft sigh escaping her lips.

Bernie continues to massage Serena’s overworked hand, gently digs her thumb around the bones and tendons of her wrist too, smiling when she sees that Serena’s relaxed enough for her whole hand to move in response. One last press into the flesh around the base of her thumb and then Bernie slowly rubs the length of each finger, kneading each bone and joint, up to the callouses on Serena’s fingertips: index, middle, ring, little, thumb last of all. And then she turns Serena’s hand over, raises it to her lips and presses a kiss there.

‘All better,’ she murmurs, and Serena hums in agreement.


	6. Chapter 6

Serena spends much of Saturday dithering, and berating herself for it. _It’s only Bernie,_ she thinks, over and over. _It’s not a big deal, just your best friend coming for dinner. Like she does. Why are you fussing so much?_

She dropped Jason at Alan’s first thing this morning then treated herself to coffee and a pain au chocolat at a café that is, according to Elinor, ‘totally hipster’; not a good thing, going by her tone, but Serena doesn’t care, only cares that the coffee is strong, and the pastry flaky and buttery and fresh. Now she’s standing in front of the chilled desserts in the supermarket trying to decide between cheesecake and profiteroles. Or maybe apple pie; she has half a tub of good ice cream in the freezer to go with it.

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ she mutters under her breath, not quite quiet enough to keep the man next to her from glancing at her.

Her hand hovers over the cheesecake but still she hesitates, moves it to the profiteroles on the shelf above. Serena is struck by a sudden image of Bernie biting into one of the balls of pastry, the creamy filling spilling out, chocolate smearing on her lips, tongue darting out to lick it away. She feels her cheeks flush hot even through the chill coming from the fridge, can’t for the life of her think why but hurriedly picks up a cheesecake and places it in her trolley.

_Menopause,_ she thinks firmly as she briskly walks away.

Back at home she packs away the food shopping, looks around the kitchen when she’s finished and decides a good clean is well overdue. Her eye turns critical then and she sees each room Bernie might go into afresh, tidies stacks of books and papers, fluffs the scatter cushions even though she knows Bernie will just move them the instant she sits down, drags the hoover around, reaching into the corners and under the edges of the furniture.

_It’s Bernie,_ she reminds herself as she rearranges the coats and scarves hanging in the hall. _She’s seen your house a mess before. And you’ve seen her idea of housekeeping._

She can’t stop herself, though. Not until she’s about to neaten an already neat stack of books Jason has left on the coffee table; she’s itching to nudge them just a little, to straighten the edges, and it’s only the thought of Jason’s reaction that halts her hand.

‘Ridiculous woman,’ she says aloud. And goes upstairs to shower away the dust she can feel on her skin, the sweat from hefting bags of groceries and hoovering.

‘Ridiculous,’ she repeats, standing in front of her wardrobe wrapped in a towel. She’s starting to feel chilly she’s been there so long, flicking through the hangers, blouse after blouse looked at and discarded ( _too bright, too dull, too patterned_ ).

‘It’s not like it’s a date,’ she mutters, dropping the towel and opening her underwear drawer, forcing herself to pull out the first thing she touches.

_So what if it’s a matching set?_ she thinks as she pulls the crimson knickers on. _No reason why I shouldn’t wear something pretty just for me._

There are still hours until Bernie’s due. Serena decides on a cup of tea and chocolate to soothe her irrational jitters, and a film to occupy herself, settles herself on the sofa (moving the meticulously plumped and arranged cushions out of the way) and looks at her options.

In hindsight, perhaps _Carol_ wasn’t a wise choice.

Serena spends the entire film thinking about Bernie. How her eyes linger on Bernie across the ward like Therese’s linger on Carol across the store. How she’d take just as little persuasion to travel with Bernie across the country, how she can think of nothing she’d like more than to have Bernie to herself for longer than a few hours without colleagues or nephews or a trauma call to interrupt, for it to be just the two of them in a car, a restaurant, a hotel room. For Bernie to look at her the way Carol looks at Therese in the mirror. For Bernie to caress her hair, her shoulders.

For Bernie to kiss her, tenderness turning to passion.

For Bernie to take her to bed, to undress her so they’re pressed skin against skin.

_Oh._

Serena feels dizzy, almost faint, fumbles for the remote with trembling fingers and pauses the film as Carol kisses her way down Therese’s body. She closes her eyes and breathes through it until her head doesn’t feel so light any more. And then, clear as if they were under the theatre lights, she sees Bernie’s eyes, warm and dark and fond, Bernie’s dear, dear, _beautiful_ face. Bernie gazing at her with care and want in her eyes. Her head spins all over again as warm desire pools in her belly.

Desire for Bernie.

She snaps her eyes open and presses play again. Another mistake: it’s all lips and skin and soft gasps, and Carol’s head between Therese’s thighs. Serena moans, can only think of Bernie. Bernie’s body flush against hers, Bernie’s lips on her skin, the tickle of Bernie’s hair, Bernie’s tongue–

Suddenly, in a metaphorical flash of light, everything makes sense. Why she’s been so anxious today. Why she’s so keen to go to work on certain days. Why she catches herself just gazing at Bernie across the ward so often. Why she can’t stop herself reaching for Bernie, why her skin sings every time they touch.

Serena thinks of Fleur, of Colette. Of her business professor at Harvard. The registrar at her first hospital. Her sixth form chemistry teacher, her first form English teacher. All the pretty women she’s ever noticed and admired and been drawn to.

‘Serena Campbell, lesbian,’ she muses aloud, then frowns. ‘Bisexual,’ she tries.

And then she thinks of Bernie again, shakes her head and smiles. The label doesn’t matter, not for now at least.

_I’ve been feeling this for – oh, for weeks,_ she thinks, pinching the bridge of her nose. _Months, even? Fool. If she was a man…_

_If she was a man you’d have noticed the way she looks at you too, the way she arcs close. The way you’ve been flirting in theatre since the first time._ Both _of you._

The film continues unheeded, runs through to its conclusion. All Serena registers is the barely contained longing of both women in the stilted tension over tea. Carol’s heartbroken resignation. The way Therese is drawn away from the party, across the city and across the room. The way Carol’s face softens and she just begins to smile when their eyes meet. She can almost feel Carol’s heart bursting.

She doesn’t realise how long she’s been sitting in the quiet after the credits have rolled until the doorbell rings. Serena jumps, glances at the clock and realises that it must be Bernie. Her heart races, fingers trembling as she pats at her hair and tugs at her blouse, only now realising she finally settled on one almost the colour of Bernie’s trauma scrubs.

‘Pull yourself together,’ she mutters, dragging at scraps of composure.

But then she opens the door and all she can think of is how gorgeous Bernie looks, how her eyes light up when she sees Serena. Everything is so startlingly clear, and she wonders how she could possibly have missed recognising this for what it is for so long.

‘Are you alright?’ Bernie asks, brows pulling together.

‘Yes, yes, I’m fine,’ Serena replies quickly, stepping back to let her in. She doesn’t give her quite enough space though. Bernie brushes against her as she passes and Serena barely stops herself from gasping, or from pulling Bernie to her. She wonders just how long she’s been doing this, been unconsciously finding excuses to be closer than necessary.

Serena rolls her eyes at her folly then follows Bernie, forcing herself to sit at the opposite end of the three-seater sofa instead of right next to her as she usually would. She doesn’t let herself look at Bernie either – well, no more than a glance anyway. But she can feel Bernie’s gaze on her, wonders if it’s always so intense. She can’t look away any longer, meets Bernie’s eye and is almost floored by what she sees there.

_I don’t feel any different seeing her now than I did yesterday._ _I’ve felt like this and just not known what it was. And I saw that in her eyes yesterday too…_

‘Are you sure you’re alright?’

Serena nods, can’t reply because she doesn’t trust this new revelation to keep from spilling from her lips. Now isn’t the time, surely. Not when she’s only just become aware of it.

‘It’s just you’re – well, you’re over there,’ Bernie says, her face falling a little. ‘You never choose to sit so far away. Have– have I done something–?’

‘No,’ Serena says quickly, before she can finish the question.

‘Then what is it, Serena? And don’t say nothing,’ she adds when Serena opens her mouth to protest, ‘because I know you better than that.’

Serena smiles at this, but it quickly fades. She tugs at her pendant, the familiar motion and quiet rasp of the chain soothing her a little.

‘You know you can tell me anything,’ Bernie says softly.

‘You promise?’

Bernie nods and then, when Serena still hesitates, shuffles part way across the empty seat between them and holds out her hand, all her fingers tucked in bar the littlest one. ‘Pinky promise,’ she says seriously.

‘What are you, seven?’ Serena teases, her voice a little strained, a little shaky.

‘I’ll have you know it’s a solemn and binding vow.’

Bernie doesn’t move, so Serena extends her own hand and hooks her finger around Bernie’s. Just this tiny touch sends a shiver down her spine and she pulls her hand back to the safety of her lap, eyes flicking to and from Bernie’s.

‘It’s just,’ she begins. ‘I mean,’ she continues, trailing off helplessly.

Bernie gazes at her, warm and soft and concerned. Serena’s heart begins to pound, her chest heaving, her head light again.

‘I promise, whatever it is it’ll be okay.’

Serena smiles weakly, bites her lip. ‘Bernie,’ she croaks.

‘I’m right here,’ Bernie says, reaching to hook her little finger around Serena’s again. ‘I’m always here, Serena.’

‘I love the way you say my name,’ Serena murmurs, unable to stop herself. And then, because words are failing her and before she can think better of it, she leans in and kisses Bernie.

It hardly lasts any time at all. When their lips part Serena looks at Bernie almost wildly, terrified what she might see. And then Bernie’s hand – the one not linked with hers – is in her hair, cradling the back of her head and drawing her in again.

‘That is not what I was expecting,’ Bernie breathes, long minutes later, her forehead resting against Serena’s.

‘Sorry?’ Serena offers.

‘Don’t be. I’ve been wanting to do that for weeks.’

‘Thank goodness for that,’ Serena smiles, a relieved laugh breaking from her lips.

Bernie sits back a little and lifts their still joined hands. ‘Told you, didn’t I?’ she smiles, brushing a kiss to Serena’s knuckles.


	7. Chapter 7

The end of a long day, back-to-back surgeries for them both. Bernie has been standing over the operating table for so long that her back is complaining, came out of theatre grimacing. Now, while Serena sits at her desk, she’s lying on the floor of their office trying to ease out the kinks before driving home, in companionable silence other than the scratch of Serena’s pen. There’s a lull on the ward too, AAU so quiet they can’t hear anything through the closed door.

Things are just about back to normal between them now and Bernie’s glad of it, glad to be able to just lie here in Serena’s presence without feeling awkward, without feeling like she’s making Serena feel awkward. It’s peaceful enough that she feels herself drifting, forces her eyes open because falling asleep here wouldn’t be a good idea.

With a groan Bernie rolls onto her side, pushes herself up to sit leaning against the desk.

‘Any better?’

Bernie rubs at her back, cautiously twists a little. ‘Nothing a hot shower won’t solve,’ she replies, the words out of her mouth before she thinks, and her cheeks flush hot.

Serena says nothing but her pen stops moving, and Bernie silently curses herself.

_Time to go, Wolfe._

But her body has other ideas, doesn’t want to play along. When she tries to stand her spine complains and her knee cracks, and she slumps back.

‘Need a hand there?’ Serena asks, coming into view, a sympathetic if slightly amused smile playing across her lips.

‘Thanks,’ Bernie mutters, taking the offered hand and trying not to think about how soft Serena’s skin is.

And then, somehow – Bernie isn’t quite sure how – instead of them both being upright Serena is on the floor too, sprawled half over her lap.

‘Don’t know your own strength, big macho army medic,’ Serena scolds fondly, but there’s a quiver in her voice.

‘Sorry,’ Bernie whispers. It’s suddenly very hard to draw air into her lungs, what with Serena’s warm weight pressed against her, and her voice comes out small and hoarse and hardly recognisable.

When Serena lifts her head their noses are almost touching. Bernie can’t move, can’t look away. So when Serena’s gaze flicks to her lips she sees it. It’s too much to bear: being this close, the darkness of Serena’s eyes when she raises them to Bernie’s again.

‘Serena,’ she whispers helplessly.

‘I know, darling,’ Serena replies, her fingers brushing Bernie’s fringe back, lingering on her temple.

Bernie will never know which of them leaned in first. Perhaps they both moved together. But Serena’s lips are even softer than she remembers, and the quiet moan from her throat is like velvet.

‘Don’t you dare apologise,’ Serena murmurs when they part.

‘I won’t,’ Bernie promises.

‘Or ask me if I’m sure about this.’

‘I won’t,’ Bernie repeats.

‘Or tell me we’re going to confine this to theatre again.’

‘I won’t,’ Bernie says again, ghosting her lips across Serena’s.

At last Serena smiles. ‘Come on,’ she says, shifting away and pushing herself to her feet. ‘This won’t be doing your back any good.’

This time when Bernie takes her hand Serena’s grip is firmer. She doesn’t let go once Bernie is upright but pulls her into a tight hug, face nestling into the curve of her neck.


	8. Chapter 8

They walk back towards AAU side by side, arms brushing as always, buoyed by the adrenaline of a successful operation and time in theatre together.

‘You look remarkably happy for a woman with a pile of discharge forms waiting on her desk,’ Serena says, nudging Bernie gently.

Bernie looks at her, her eyes soft and warm, joy bubbling through her as she holds the door onto the ward open for Serena. ‘What can I say? A good afternoon in theatre with a beautiful woman will do that for you.’

‘It certainly will,’ Serena agrees, closing their office door behind them to shut out the noise of the ward so they can at least try to get some admin done without getting disturbed.

Bernie flops into her chair, frowns when the phone she left on her desk lights up with a text. She picks it up, feels panic flare in her when she sees she has two missed calls and three texts from Marcus. _The kids,_ she thinks, fingers trembling so much it takes her three attempts to unlock the screen. But then she reads the texts and realises there’s no emergency, it’s just a continuation of the argument they had yesterday, and the day before, and the one before that. Since Cam asked if he and Charlie could spend Christmas Day with Bernie, since Bernie stammered out a disbelieving affirmative. Since Cam told Marcus.

Bernie runs a hand through her hair and growls, loud enough to make Serena glance over at her. ‘Marcus?’ she guesses.

Bernie nods tightly. ‘I’m not calling him back,’ she says adamantly. I’ve told him already, it’s up to the kids what they want to do over Christmas. They’ve decided, and as far as I’m concerned that’s that.’

So she puts her phone face down on her desk and starts in on a discharge form – but she’s barely put pen to paper before her it starts buzzing.

‘Get it over with now,’ Serena advises. ‘He’ll just keep calling until you answer. And I for one don’t want to lose another evening to him. I can think of reams of things I’d rather we spent our time doing.’

Bernie smiles at the spark in Serena’s eyes and then wrinkles her nose in distaste, looks at Serena pleadingly but is met by a firm stare. So she sighs, and answers. ‘Marcus,’ she says, her voice falsely pleasant. And then rolls her eyes at Serena when she can’t get another word out.

‘Look,’ Bernie says eventually. ‘I’m not telling the kids I’ve changed my mind because I haven’t and I’m done lying, so it’s no use you talking to me.’

She tips her head back and closes her eyes, her free hand clenched tight at her side.

‘I don’t care, Marcus. I’m not having this argument with you again, so stop calling me about it.’

Bernie hangs up, barely managing not to throw her phone across the room. Serena stands and comes to lean against Bernie’s desk, reaches to touch her fist.

Bernie heaves a shuddering sigh. ‘Christmas was never this stressful in a war zone,’ she mutters. But her muscles unclench instantly, fingers uncurling, nails no longer biting crescents into her palm. She looks at Serena gratefully, her weak smile strengthening when their eyes meet and she remembers how overjoyed Serena was when Bernie told her what Cam had asked, how she had held her when tears pricked her eyes, how she had kissed her.

‘It’s thanks to you,’ Bernie says quietly.

‘What is?’ Serena frowns.

‘That they want to see me. Cam says I’m different now. Happy.’

Serena smiles and clasps both of Bernie’s hands between hers, thumbs chafing a little to soothe away the remnants of tension.


	9. Chapter 9

'Would you like the window seat, darling?’ Serena asks, hesitating as Bernie wedges her duffle bag into the overhead storage.

‘I’d prefer the aisle,’ Bernie replies. ‘If you don’t mind? A bit more leg room,’ she explains.

Serena eyes her legs appreciatively before slipping into her seat, and Bernie plonks down beside her, stretches her legs out into the aisle as if to prove her point.

She does want to be able to stretch her legs, it’s true. But that’s not the real reason she wants to sit in the aisle seat.

As the train pulls out of Lyon Serena digs in her handbag and pulls out her Kindle, starts to read. Bernie, who has never been able to read on the train without feeling slightly ill, stares out of the window, watching the suburbs and then the countryside speed past. Or rather, she watches it speed past as a blurry backdrop to Serena’s profile, which is what she’s really gazing at.

‘I can feel you watching me,’ Serena says, her voice teasing rather than accusatory.

‘Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Bernie replies, with an air of exaggerated innocence.

Serena smiles but doesn’t look up. Bernie’s eyes trace the creases around her mouth, the appling of her cheeks.

‘You know one of the joys of e-readers?’ Serena asks conversationally, still not looking up.

‘What?’

‘They’re so light. Only require one hand.’ As she says this, Serena drops her left hand to where Bernie’s rests on her thigh. Bernie can’t help it, instantly moves to fit her fingers between Serena’s.

‘I might be persuaded away from paper then,’ she says, as Serena’s thumb rubs across her skin.

Serena makes an amused little sound at the back of her throat, takes her eyes from the words just long enough to meet Bernie’s. ‘I’ll believe that when I see it.’

Bernie smiles too, gently squeezes Serena’s hand. And then she returns her attention to the window, to Serena’s profile.

As she reads, Serena’s thumb keeps caressing the back of Bernie’s hand.


End file.
